


Extracts from the Journal of Lord Coward

by viceindustrious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Diary/Journal, M/M, Victorian, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5511059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extracts from the journal of Lord Coward, recovered during the investigation into the Blackwood affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extracts from the Journal of Lord Coward

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP - at the moment this fic is suitable for all audiences and there are no applicable warnings, but this will definitely change as things move forward. Of course I will update the tags etc. as things progress, but I just wanted to say to anyone reading that they should probably expect things to get darker/more adult in later chapters even if I'm not entirely sure where it will end up myself yet! Lots of love to [ClementineStarling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling) for engaging me in conversations that contributed a lot to the inspiration for this!

**Here follows the most relevant extracts from the journal of Lord Coward, recovered during the investigation into the Blackwood affair.**

**-**

_May 8th 1886_

The arrival of R’s hopelessly cryptic telegram at breakfast this morning means I’ve been forced to take my leave of poor N two days earlier than I’d planned and consequently I am writing now aboard the twelve o’clock to Paddington. Cryptic, naturally for R, hardly describes the complexity of his cypher (a schoolboy might do better, R lacks the imagination for such cloak and dagger antics) but rather the infuriatingly oblique wording of the message itself.

Declining to hold it above a flame to check for further secrets – I can only gather that R is nervous about some business he would rather leave unnamed. All very mysterious, some circuitous references to scripture, but honestly I do not have the stomach for theology before lunch and I find myself even less inclined to ponder upon his meaning now.

The weather has been exceedingly fine these past few days and I am sorry to leave Oxford so soon. I had been looking forward to the prospect of taking H’s new Barb out and it’s really more than a trifle presumptuous of R to send for me in this manner but I suppose he feels he has earned the right. Wisdom counsels patience. I will see him utterly disabused of such notions in the end.

-

_May 10th 1886_

Tea with L. A stifling business in his sun room, watching him sweat. There was much discussion of G’s absurd Irish bill which, despite my best efforts to assuage his fears, seems to have put him in something of a panic. I fear he desired some token more than I was willing to spend. Naturally, I do not like L. well enough to share a cab with him, much less my ‘deepest political convictions’.

Of course, conviction is what he believes I lack, myopic twit that he is. Conviction! I am being tenderly suffocated by the General Opinion Toward Compromise and more fool any soul who cannot see there will be no sticking place for an honourable (or otherwise) Briton to screw their courage under this Parliament. At least the election is fast approaching and SB has already promised me a place in his cabinet.

Should I thank R for this fact? The Order? He cancelled our meeting and left me with absolutely no time to make other plans for supper.

-

_May 14th 1886_

A letter came today from mother. I have let it retain its chastity on the dresser this entire day.

Drinks at the club with R – at last, where he offered some weak apology for Monday. S was already there by the time I arrived, looking earnest as usual in that very particular American way of his. He does not think like a politician, which may of course be why R places so much trust in him. It is not wholly ridiculous; I do believe that S is as honestly loyal to R as R imagines I am to him myself.

But what an anti-climax! All these portentous rumblings amounted to (as far as I can see) a very small piece of news indeed. Viz. Lord J. B is dead and his heir, the new Lord H. B has returned from an apparently lengthy sojourn on the continent to take up the estate. I am aware that there is a history between the Order and B, though R has always been very reticent when it comes to the details. He advises the strictest caution in any dealings we may have with this man, though apparently it would be better to have none at all.

I am sure it is only more useless squabbling about the inner rites. Perhaps B has transcribed a new grimoire, dictated to him in trance by a disgraced Parisian Cometesse or some such nonsense. More likely the matter is rather one of an intimate disagreement between the two of them. Still, I do wonder. No suspicion worth noting really, except – R’s fear. I was too exasperated to pay close attention at the time, but –

No matter, it’s all pure nonsense.

-

_May 23rd 1886_

A day of some small incidence.

A visit from CB, newly appointed as the Commissioner of Police and a reminder that although there is certainly a line to tread, to be thought of as a complete innocent is of no use to one’s career. No indeed, probity is for the middle classes. He spoke very highly of R, clearly in the hope that I would repeat our conversation to the man himself. It is apparent that CB desires initiation into one of the more clandestine degrees of the Order – I am sure I can manage this in just the right way to put him into my debt.

B has taken his father’s seat. I saw him today, briefly, at the House. He looks nothing like his father. He looks **[investigators note: the following lines have been blacked out and are illegible]**

He looks nothing like I had expected. Would it sound peculiar to say that I can almost understand R’s anxiety? I can say that he has a striking profile and a rather intense look about the eyes (peregrine, is the word I have been resisting) but that would not capture the essence of it. I shall admit he commands a presence, which is something R decidedly lacks.

-

_May 30 th 1886 _

Visited with mother yesterday. The scent of lilacs as you ride up from the main gate has grown altogether cloying. Perhaps it was always so? I have my suspicions that the groundskeeper has allowed himself to grow rather lax in his duties. Of course, father is worse than mother described in her letters, though no worse than I imagined.

She insisted I borrow her copy of the latest Stevenson novel that she’s been wasting her time with. Plenty of illuminating pencil marks in the margins. One sentence in particular has been underlined either several times or with such feeling that I am surprised the paper isn’t torn:

'He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point.’

I hardly slept at all last night, though I suppose it left me able to get a fair amount of work done. Ran into C on the way to the Club and made awful small talk, he could not have been any more pleased to see me than I was to see him, but we walked together for a good quarter of an hour. He offered an invitation to the Society of Antiquaries and I was too exhausted to think of a good reason to refuse.

I had to hold myself in check the whole time not to grind my teeth.

No, no, I had to hold myself in check not to **[investigators note: the following line has been crossed out]**

**-**

_June 3 rd 1886 _

B was sitting in the House again today. I had the opportunity to introduce myself but I do not like to be at a disadvantage and B is far too much of a mystery at the moment. I have written to Cousin C (his wife is a niece to the B family and I seem to recall they have some familiarity) making enquires.

Picked up a beautiful pair of opera gloves this morning, a very delicate taupe with mousquetaire fastenings in pearl. I am going to have them wrapped and sent to mother.

-

_June 6 th 1886_

A dreary Sunday. It was cool in the chapel, dark and very beautiful, but spying the dust float down from the eaves with such sluggish inevitability left me with a sense that time was slipping away from me while I sat there, utterly helpless and impotent.

There is a starkness to St. Luke’s that matches the starkness of the Order’s main hall; the difference is only one of timbre. I was never one to think I might find in the Order what I had found lacking in the chapel. They are both eminently worldly organizations. Still, I have this strange longing for something that evades me. I am drawn to these imperfect substitutes for want of something more. (what?)

-

_June 7 th 1886_

A peculiar day. I hesitate to write, since so very little actually occurred and yet I feel as though there was some queer significance to it all.

Perhaps I should not write beside the window, the sky has turned the most distracting shade of amber and I can barely keep my thoughts to the page as it is.

I will try to keep to the mere facts of the matter. There was a budget debate in the House. I took the floor early on so as to guarantee a fair audience. (I refuse to take half measures when planning this sort of business, even if the matter is something as trifling as sugar taxation.) I should not have made particular notice of B in the crowd but **[investigators note: there is an inkblot here]**

He was watching me. I had thought he was smiling, although I am not so sure of that now. There was a great deal of the knife-edge about his looking. I can picture exactly the hard brushstrokes of his brow. (Fearful symmetry, I cannot put that line from my mind.) It brings back shades of my childhood music tutor. The way that man used to watch me as I put bow to string; expectation and judgement, as much a staple of my youth as bread and blackcurrant jam.

Absurd to be dwelling on such thoughts, I know. I believe I put in an exemplary performance at any rate. Can one truly be called magnificent when one is talking of percentages? I do not know, but I am sure I managed it. I was in my very best form. CR and H congratulated me afterward. I looked for B but he was nowhere to be found.

I really do have a good many letters that need to be written before tomorrow’s post. I don’t know where the time has gone but I’ve hardly managed to do a thing all evening.

I believe I will retire early tonight.

-

_June 16 th 1886_

Still no reply from C. I am resolved to send him a telegram.

I cannot imagine why he has not yet written. He is one of the few members of the family with whom I have remained on consistently good terms. Even when we would play together as boys and mother would coo over his blond curls and dim-witted, eternally sunny disposition, I could never quite muster up any real animosity for my dear cuz. He was so very loyal in his affection for me and so far beneath any prospect of envy.

Perhaps I should be more patient. It does make me smile now, such recollections as the occasion when I got my hands on the cook’s matches and convinced him to start a fire beneath the drawing room table. I, Livingstone and C, my faithful coolie – the pair of us stranded in a harsh and inhospitable land where we would surely perish without making camp. A fire would clearly be instrumental to our survival.

It was pure luck (I can still remember how bitterly disappointed I was at the time) the entire house didn’t go up in flames. C took every bit of the blame and came to me after his father had dealt with him, all bleary eyed from sobbing, begging my pardon for ruining the game. An apology I accepted magnanimously after some consideration.

To matters not completely unrelated - I overheard CV talking some perfect nonsense today about G’s merits as a statesman and the importance of conciliation now more than ever – ‘No matter what the result of the coming election.’ I think I am actually a little peeved I had to forgo the pleasure of laughing in his face, but one must keep up appearances.

-

_June 20 th 1886_

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. R has invited B into the fold. He announced it at tonight’s meeting during dinner. There were whispers after in the smoking room. I’m sure R was optimistic he could brazen it out, but no amount of good brandy could dispel the unease that settled over the rest of the evening.

My general distaste for R’s company is quickly becoming something more intimate. I lost my appetite completely during his fumbling efforts to make it appear as though this were exactly the outcome he had been wishing for all along - what a boon it is to have someone of B’s considerable experience welcomed back into our ranks! Although I was under the impression that B had been expelled from the Order some years before I was initiated, R now claims B was merely pursuing interests in some of our sister sects abroad and there was never a question of his eventual return.

I caught the eye of S during this speech. He was clearly just as convinced as I by this pantomime act. R must surely have a better explanation in line for us! It may not be quite as obvious to the lower members of the Order, but there is no question that B has forced R’s hand somehow. Stupid old man, if he had known this was a possibility then he should never have made it so abundantly clear he abhorred the very thought of B’s presence. Does he not realize how weak this makes him look - and he the Head of the Order!

I suspect I am not the only one who sees R for what he is, but there is very little that can done about a man with his standing. You might as well try to pull up an ancient oak with your bare hands; even a dead tree has its roots.

-

_June 28th 1886_

A reply from C at last, though one which sheds absolutely no light on any of this business. He sends his best wishes and regrets to inform me that he cannot help. He wrote with such painfully deliberate penmanship and such uncharacteristic brevity that I had the perfect image of him fretting over the paper as I read. Ah, but I should not say it reveals nothing. It does tell me one thing – C is lying to me for some reason.

I am more amused than annoyed. I’ve been restless these past few months, perhaps ever since I knew my position in the next government was assured. It is not impatience. I recognize this agitation and I know that above all else I must keep myself occupied.

RE has invited both S and myself to join him in his box at the theatre tonight. The last thing I’d like to do is watch Spencer in another leading role, but I would like the chance to bend S’ ear without it being apparent that was my principle design.

-

_July 7 th 1886_

Received a letter from RB informing me of his meeting with a ‘secretary of one of the ministers’ who mentioned that my comments on D’s proposal touching the South African matter had attracted the attention of some lib committee at Highclere. _Generosus equus non curat canem latrantem!_

It had been my intention to go up to Newbury and visit C well before this month was halfway past but now I find I have to postpone my plans to deal with family matters closer to home. I will be engaged all week now with one thing or another.

-

_July 10 th 1886_

Mother insists I stay for the weekend and I find I am unable to refuse. I do not hate it here. Home. I wonder what I will do when the place truly is mine? It has felt that way for long enough already. Mother manages the household – ah, the duties of the wife I have yet to secure – but it has been so long since father has been able to recognize his own name, let alone sit at the head of the table. I do not hate it, yet I feel as though the place is haunted, if only with the breathless expectancy of death. Mother won’t shut any of the rooms up, though god only knows when was the last time she entertained.

-

_July 11 th 1886 _

I mentioned B at dinner this evening, for want of a better subject to fill the tiresome quiet.

Mother gave me the most peculiar look. Peculiar, I should say, for its sharpness. Usually there is a milky aspect to her gaze, I have always imagined she is happier preoccupying herself with times long past, days when she could still wear blue satin.

‘Oh what a foolish man,’ she said.

It took me a moment to understand that she was talking about the late JB. HB’s father. Funny how it never occurred to me until today, B is a number of years older than I am myself, but our fathers were both members of the Order together.

Despite my best efforts to draw mother on what was so particularly foolish about JB she refused to elaborate and pursed her lips at me as though I were acting in an appalling manner by even asking.

Strange then, how when I mentioned that his son had returned to London, she smiled instead. It was not a pleasant thing. That brief flicker of something secret and knowing across her lips took me aback as something dreadfully vulpine.

‘Have you met the boy?’ she asked me.

Strange again, and not at all because of her familiar habit of referring to all my peers as though they were still children, but because it has been so long since she has inquired into the comings and goings of my life at all. When I mentioned that our paths had crossed, if not our words, she simply nodded.

‘I expect that will not be the last you see of him.’

I want so badly to press her on the point, but there’s no use to wishing. I know that laugh, as though the world has played enough cruel jokes at her expense that she’s resigned herself to laughing along. She sounds as mad as father at these times, perhaps it is what she wishes. If I have the time and the temper for it later, maybe I can ease some sort of sense out of her.

-

_July 13 th_

Back to the city. A great deal of business of all kinds. Telegrams and letters and lunch with SB at the Carlton. There is a portrait hanging in the dining room of a woman all in black, her waist cinched in like a wasp, her skin pale. She has the face of a seraph, the architecture of her skull is beautiful and severe and suggestive of things that should not be named. We dined on turpin.

Next week is B’s initiation.

-

_July 16 th 1886_

I should have written last night.

It was all much clearer then.

At seven I dined with E at the club, and though he was going on to call on some mutual friends, I elected to stay for a brandy and to finish reading my Mirbeau.

‘On condamne à mort le meurtrier timide.’

I had barely read the words on the page myself before I heard them echoed, out loud, above my shoulder. A deep voice; the accent a little too stiff to be good, but deliberate, it seemed, as though the speaker would disdain to be mistaken for anything other than an Englishman.

He – B – came from behind my chair and seated himself in the armchair opposite – and when I placed my book down on the small black-walnut table between the two of us, he spread his long fingers across the open page and turned it to face him, reciting the rest of the passage in English.

How can I – it looks like nothing on the page before me now. But his voice. Damn this morning for all its pastoral insipidity. It’s no use. I cannot say what I mean.

He did not introduce himself. He asked me if I knew who he was. I told him that I knew of him. I offered my condolences for his father. I asked how he was finding London after all this time. But I know that when I smiled at him it was not with the benign indifference that I should have worn. I wanted him to known that I was not merely the mask which I affected. I did not want him to think that I was afraid.

Now I have this queasy sense I’ve made some misstep, though as much as I pore over the matter I can’t think where! We spoke of nothing important; mostly incidental things, even the weather for pity’s sake! On anything touching the Order I evaded his questions with such skill I wonder that it seemed to please him so much. No, I have given nothing away, no matter what his intentions may be. I do not suppose he is my enemy even if he is R’s, but of course I cannot trust him!


End file.
